Title: Documenting Bar Brawls
Author: Clair-de-Lune
Fandom: DC's Legends of Tomorrow
Characters: Sara Lance, Leonard Snart, Mick Rory, Rip Hunter, Gideon
Summary: It doesn't take long before Rip finds out... (Sequel to The Little Comforts)
A/N: Many thanks to Foxriverinmate for the speedy read-through.
It doesn't take long before Rip finds out.
The fact that Gideon rats them out accelerates the process. Len's sure they could have got away with it a little bit longer if the AI had kept her digital mouth shut about bar incidents involving three of the Waverider's passengers. Incidents happening in a recurring way that makes it highly improbable said incidents have anything to do with bad luck.
Hunter has summoned the three of them to the bridge and told them to sit down. They complied. Sara because she doesn't care; Len because it's always fun to see their captain's attempts at authority; Mick because Len's here, and where Len goes, Mick follows.
"I've always obeyed Snart's rules on away missions," Mick points out.
Rip swallows hard at the notion of Snart appointing himself as some kind of legislator.
"No taking the heat gun with me prior to mid-20th Century. No firing the heat gun under any circumstances."
Mick raises two thick fingers to stress the aforementioned away missions rules. Leaving the heat gun on the Waverider was asking a lot of him. He doesn't like leaving the heat gun unmonitored.
Rip pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his forefinger, trying and failing to keep a headache at bay.
"I appreciate your restraint, Mr. Rory, but I would have appreciated even more restraint from the three of you. Bar brawls? Really?"
Mick shrugs, not getting what the big deal is. Slouched on the base of his travel chair, his back against the edge of the seat and his legs extended in front of him, Len tips his head to the side and spies Gideon's captors over his head. He's bored. He doesn't like being bored. It's a waste of his time. If someone doesn't make this little lecture interesting in the next ten seconds tops, he's outta—
"How can it be registered already?" Sara asks. "I thought history needed time to be... cemented?"
Len nods. Smart woman. Great point. Also, great ass. (She's leaning on her elbows over the main console, one leg bent and one leg straight. It does interesting things to her figure, even though he knows better than say it out loud.)
Rip looks about as happy as a Time Master being second-guessed on time travels by a newbie can be. Which means that his face is pinched in a way that might not be un-pinchable any time soon.
Well. Now Len's having fun.
"Cemented, yes. But the events themselves are documented on the go, as they happen. And those events are very much documented in Gideon's database."
Saint-Roch and Leipzig, 1975.
Twice the same year. Twice. (Rip repeats it as if, you know, they weren't there when said events happened.) Fortunately, besides a bunch of battered, bruised and boiling bikers in the first case, and an owner pissed off but resigned about half of her glasses shattered and a couple of stools broken in the second case, those first two occurrences didn't have much consequence.
Rabat, 2022.
"Someone called Lance a crazy bitch," Mick rumbles from his seat on the bridge of the time ship.
"Aww." Sara beams at him, part-amused, part-grateful, one hundred percent fond of him. "Didn't know you started this one to defend my honor. I owe you one."
"That's adorable," Rip says. He doesn't look like he thinks it's adorable, but who cares? "Don't do it again. She proved that night that the 'crazy' part wasn't entirely wrong."
"The 'bitch' part's kinda true too," Len drawls, his appreciative tone making it clear it's a compliment, and winks at Sara.
Melbourne, 1928.
"We were defending Len's honor," Sara protests.
Rip shakes his head in disbelief.
"Patrons of the cabaret accused him of stealing wallets and watches."
"So?"
"So it doesn't sound far-fetched that they were telling the truth. Thus, no wounded honor to defend."
Sara concedes on that one. Even Len concedes on that one, even though he has a policy to never confess. Denial is a criminal's best friend, right after diamonds.
Melbourne was nice, though. Sara scored with a leggy brunette with a bob cut. (Women from the Roaring Twenties rule.) Len scored with a blond person with amazingly nimble fingers. (None of his two wingmen can tell if the person in question was a man or a woman. They won't ask and— Okay, Sara asked, but she only got a smirk as an answer.) Mick burnt the candle at both ends while waiting for them half of the night. (No, really: he did burn a candle at both ends. Awesome night.)
Firenze, 14-freaking-76.
No matter what Rip thinks, this one was worth it for at least two reasons. First reason, Leonard Snart and Mick Rory in 15th Century attire. Sara won't dwell on that, 'cause no need, right? The notion speaks for itself. Second reason, they ran into Leonardo Da Vinci himself.
"Sadly, we were rather too early," Len regrets.
Rip jumps at that and, without thinking any further, checks the Mona Lisa whereabouts. A sigh of relief escapes him at the results displayed by Gideon. Right. Too early. Way too early. Good.
"I didn't think you could do your ninja kick thing in that frilly frock," Mick tells Sara, clearly impressed.
"She can do the ninja kick thing in any outfit, at any point in time, in any weather." Len pushes himself up a little bit to prevent his butt from sliding off the seat base and finding himself in an undignified position — there is slouching, and then there is slouching. "Ain't that the truth, Canary?"
Sara smiles at him.
He goes on, looking up to where Gideon's holographic head glows over the console. "I'm disappointed, Giddie. I thought we had an understanding."
Rip startles for the second time in less than two minutes. Finally, that lecturing thing isn't too bad. From where Len stands, anyway.
"Gideon, what kind of understanding?" the good captain demands.
Sara would swear that the lights on the ship flicker as a manifestation of Gideon's indignation. She lets her head hang forward between her forearms in order to hide her grin from Rip, and glances at Len between her eyelashes. The glee makes his blue eyes sparkle in an almost blinding way. He's messing with their captain, who's probably the only one on that bridge unaware of what's going on.
"I don't have any understanding with Mr. Snart, Captain." Can an AI sigh? Because it sounds like Gideon just sighed. "You warned me about him."
"Okay. No more bar brawls, though."
"Or what?" Snart snarks.
There's about five As in his what. Mick doesn't say a thing, but Mick doesn't need to say a thing to make his take on the situation clear.
Someone has to be mature about the whole thing — and it's not going to be her two partners in crime, it appears — so Sara steps in.
"I think that what my chilly friend here is conveying is... we're not your crew. We're a team, Rip. You don't deal with a crew and with a team the same way. Even when it comes to bar brawls."
"What she said," Mick says.
Rip breathes in slowly and deeply. He mentally prepared himself to deal (and bargain) with these people when he borrowed the time ship. But preparation can only take you so far; after that, you have to resort to self-control techniques.
"All right. Is there something that could make you accept the painful sacrifice of not getting involved in more bar brawls as a side effect of our mission to save the world?"
Len joins his hands in front of him, his fingers forming a perfect arch. (He has long, nice fingers. Very deft, too. Sara's had evidence.)
"If you have an offer, we're listening, Rip."
END